


My Hands, Your Bones

by ironicosity



Category: Bandom, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Josh kills people, M/M, Murder, Serial Killers, Tyler is one of those people, he bites off someone's fingers, josh needs help probably, like a lot, no smut though, this is really graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 21:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7481178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicosity/pseuds/ironicosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn’t care if he wasn’t normal, because it’s not like it was wrong. How could something that feels so good ever be wrong?</p><p>(lowkey pretty damn graphic about murder, just saying in case someone needs to know)<br/>title from Lose It by Oh Wonder</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Hands, Your Bones

It started when he was a young boy. They would take family trips to the beach, and his siblings would build sandcastles, or play around in the waves with their mother. He would always stay behind, kicking down any towers they had managed to construct. He just loved to see their faces covered in tears and snot when they discovered that their kingdom had been destroyed. He took pride in knowing it was all because of him.

His sister cried a lot, particularly whenever he stole one of her dolls and dismantled them. He would pull off their arms and legs, cut off all their hair, and tug on the head until it flew out with a pop. All that he would leave was a hollow torso.

When he was twelve, he cut his own hair. Not because it was too long, or because he didn’t know any better, but simply because he felt powerful wielding a pair of scissors. He trimmed little pieces on the sides of his head that his mother would probably never notice. He liked holding the small tufts of hair in his hand. He liked to destroy.

Once, when he was fourteen, he stole a lighter from downstairs. He didn’t do anything with it, at least not that year. He just liked to be able to say he had it, to know that he had the ability to burn down his house.

The next year, though, he discovered that fires were very pretty. He would wait until his family was asleep, and then he would slip out back. Placing a small pile of paper on the concrete ground of his porch, he would light it at the corner and watch the flames engulf it. Sometimes, he would take videos on his phone to show his friends later.

That was when he discovered that it wasn’t really a normal thing to do.

He didn’t care if he wasn’t normal, because it’s not like it was wrong. How could something that feels so good ever be wrong?

He always held a strange fondness for the shows on television about hospitals. He would watch closely as they inserted needles and made delicate incisions. In his mind, it was an art form. Of all the things he had done before, from kicking sandcastles to burning books, he had never seen something so perfect. Something that was truly the epitome of ending purity.

At the age of seventeen, he found himself wanting to know how it felt to end a life. He wanted to watch as the light in their eyes withered and faded. He wanted to watch someone’s last breath and be able to say he was the cause. He wanted to watch their blood trickle down his closed fist as he tore them apart, bone by bone.

He thinks, now, that this was always the true meaning of playing doctor.

He wants to drain their blood and paint the kitchen walls with its lovely crimson shade, because it’s kind of needed a renovation anyways. He wants to hang up their ribs above his mantelpiece, because there’s never been a more beautiful shape. The image of a knife gliding across thin, bony skin brings a smile to his face. 

He wants to find the most beautiful girl, one with curves and luscious hair, and ruin her. He wants to taint her purity, make her sick, possess her. He wants to rip out her hair, make her scream, bleed, cry.

He’ll make the most careful incisions, just like the television taught him, and he’ll reach inside to feel her even deeper. He’ll rip out her veins with his bare hands, maybe take a bite or two. Chunks of flesh coming off her cheek into his mouth isn’t something he ever thought he would like, but here he is. He’ll chomp and munch and crunch, and then spit out her own fingers back onto her face.

And what a shame, truly, that she’s gone. She would have lived a nice, long life. But he’s sure that, if she hasn’t already, she’ll bleed out soon enough.

It was a while before anyone even noticed she was dead, but when they did notice, it was all over the news. He almost felt sad that it took so long for her to be recognized. Almost.

It was at that point that he started considering himself a serial killer. He had yet to kill three people, still stuck at a stagnant one, but he knew he could do it if he tried. His mother did always tell him to believe in himself.

(Though, looking back, he’s not so sure that this is what she meant.)

After a week, he starts looking for his next victim. He chooses a young-looking girl, probably around twenty or nineteen. It becomes a Monday routine of his.

It had been a month and a week when the news stated that there was a serial killer in Columbus, Ohio. He felt something similar to pride.

On the third month, second week, he saw a boy. The boy was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He had never wanted to fuck something up so badly. He wanted to take him in with a smile, and leave him bloodied, battered, and bruised.

And so, he did.

He greeted him with a grin, and pulled him by the hand to his car. The drive was mostly silent, minus the boy giving him directions to his home. It was obvious that he was slightly intoxicated and, even then, it’s not as if the news had released a photo of him. Who would suspect Josh to be a killer? He was just a friendly college junior who believed in aliens.

The boy, now known to be Tyler, was a giggling mess once they got into his small home. He turned, pinning Josh against the wall, kissing him clumsily yet fiercely. He wanted to laugh at Tyler and say, “I’m not here to have sex, love. I’m here to kill you,” but he didn’t. He just grabbed him by the hips and kissed back. He got dragged to Tyler’s room, and soon enough, they were panting against each other.

Because, really, this kid is soon to be dead. Who was he to pass up the last opportunity to fuck him? Afterwards, Tyler immediately started to fall asleep. Perfect.

Josh scavenged the household, looking in all the drawers, until he found just what he was looking for. A (strangely convenient) roll of duct tape.

He crept up to him while he slept, as he had no idea how light of a sleeper he was. Snipping a rather generous piece of duct tape, he sealed it over Tyler’s mouth. As much as he would love to hear the boy scream (this time in pain), he didn’t want to be caught in the act. That would just be awkward.

He hadn’t brought a weapon with him which, honestly, was kind of idiotic. What, was he supposed to wear gloves? Where in the hell was he supposed to find those? He decided that he would probably just end up taking a couple of the kid’s knives. Not like he would need them anyways.

He scooped the boy up and carried him to the floor of the living room. Conveniently, it was only a few feet away from the door. He took a casual stroll through his kitchen, seeing just what he would have to work with today. A butcher knife, but not too sharp. He started to wonder why this kid had so many goddamn serrated knives. Seriously, they were his least favourite to work with.

Sighing, he drudged over with a serrated knife in hand. He straddled him, pinning him down, and almost felt tempted to shake him awake. Whatever, the pain was sure to wake him up.

He traced a light line, barely adding any pressure, from his neck down to his stomach. This was just what he needed. It had been a week which, honestly, he considered too long of an in-between time. He had to keep it constant, though. He had a perfectly organized schedule that he would not fuck up.

Ironic, huh? The only thing he doesn’t want to fuck up. The epitome of order, and yet, he supports it.

Whatever, he had a kid to kill. He could debate with himself later.

He started, without any concern for the kid, making a deep incision on his arm. Blood started spewing out, and oh, was it glorious. He nearly ran to get a cup to collect it in. He pulled apart the skin on his arm,revealing the muscle and bone underneath. It was barely even noticeable that the kid woke up, because as soon as he did, he fainted right away. Well, that was no fun. He wanted to hear him scream.

He smiled a delicate smile, almost as if he were at a picnic with friends. As if this was normal (though, he supposes, it kind of is for him).

He used the knife to carefully slice away at the boy’s muscle underneath. Tearing, ripping, cutting, he managed to get it all off. He simply tossed it to the side. He looked up at the boy, who was still perfectly sleeping. His hair was truly beautiful, soft, and fluffy. It gave off a certain shine --

Josh gripped a tuft of his hair with his fist, pulling violently upward. Almost all that was in his fist came out, leaving him with a relatively bloodied scalp. He tossed that aside, too.

He grabbed the non-cut arm with a merciless grip, gnawing almost feverishly at the skin. A feeling of delirium washed over him, intoxicating him further. He ravenously tore off a chunk of the boy’s flesh, spitting it back onto his chest. Disgusting.

He sliced at his thighs, knees, all the way down to his ankles. He tore him apart, leaving nothing left to save. Nothing left to keep pure. He was sullied, defiled.

Once he felt he was done, he finished with a stab to the heart, and then the face. The boy’s beautiful, pure face. Now ruined with a large slice diagonally through it. He tore the duct tape off his mouth, throwing it out. He precisely washed the bloodied knife twice, carrying it out with him when he left.

He got in his car, being careful not to get any blood inside, and drove home.

Once parked, he was quick to change his clothes from soiled to clean so as to not be ridiculously suspicious. He stuffed the bloodied shirt and jeans in his backpack, as well as the knife, and threw it over his shoulder. He was truly gruesome. A being of pure apathy, who just happened to be good at faking it.

Well, no, it wouldn’t be true to say that Josh didn’t care about others or what they wanted. He particularly did care so that he could give them exactly what they didn’t want. He loved seeing people cry. He loved tearing people apart. He loved the unscrupulous beauty of it all.

As soon as he got through the front door, he threw his bloody clothes (and the backpack, just in case) into the washer by themselves on ‘heavy load.’ He placed the knife in his sink to be washed a third, and final, time.

He was exhausted. Elated, but exhausted. A shower was just what he needed.

The water was steaming hot when he went under the stream, but it just made it all the better. He could practically feel his muscles untangling, relaxing. He could feel the sin sliding down his body, being shucked off by the water.

Tyler was fucking destroyed. Obliterated. Nothing but a pile of red and pink and deceased. A fucking corpse. And it was all because of Josh.

He gave a light smile as he turned the knob, making the water cease its falling. A towel found its way around his waist as he walked delicately to his bedroom.

Tossing on a pair of boxers, he laid down in bed, completely relaxing his body. People would tell him that he was disgusting if they ever found out. They would tell him he was vile, that he was wrong.

But how could something that feels so good ever be wrong?

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello i hope you enjoyed!! all kudos/comments are extremely appreciated c: also if theres any errors sorry, please tell me and ill fix it as soon as i can! have a nice day, don't forget to smile !!


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